


The Chaos Club aka Robin Hood had Nothing on Us

by patron_saint_of_suburbia



Category: Brave (2012), Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), How to Train Your Dragon (2010), My Chemical Romance, Rise of the Guardians (2012), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Better Living Industries, California, Canon?, Chaos, End of the World, Fast Cars, Friendship, Guns, Kidnapping, Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons, Robin Hood References, Tattoos, Team Bonding, what's canon?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patron_saint_of_suburbia/pseuds/patron_saint_of_suburbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(I'm saying that the Danger Days verse started in 2010, so it'll be 9 yrs ago, 8 yrs ago, and so on. Will have mentions of dem Fab Killjoys)</p>
<p>"Now I have been thinking within myself," quoth Little John, "what we are fighting for; but albeit I do not rightly know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiccup

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction, and although I can quote all the movies in the Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons fandom by heart and I don't go a day without listening to one song from Danger Days, I can only hope I do the characters justice.

** Nine Years Ago **

                ( _Mushrooms)_

That was the first word that came to mind as he watched yellow clouds expand to the shape of a fungus he could do without come dinners in the cafeteria. They were ever expanding, though. Giant yellow mushroom clouds, not the brown-spotted white mushrooms he was certain trolls lived in. They were in the distance, causing such a loud rumbling

                ( _like the Earth’s stomach growled)_

that he was pushed back against the side of the camp’s worn-with-wear wooden green building wall, its splinters pricking against his back. He didn't have time to be surprised that this ancient structure was still standing after sheltering dozens of kids every year, back to when his dad was a camper, before his head came in contact with the hard surface behind him, but he ignored the pain as he looked on, vision slightly blurry with tears from the wind and dust and terrible acrid smell. Pushing himself up, trying to stand steadily on the shaky ground, he looked up at the sky and wished he hadn't.

A plane on fire fell

_(just like a maple tree seed)_

a distance away causing a bright explosion that threw him back, much too quickly to cover his ears to block the intense boom of its sound.

He rapidly blinked his eyes, failing to regain his sight, which returned after a few seconds. He became vaguely aware of his Berkeley Day Camp counselor

                ( _Gus? Garth? Gobber?)_

gesturing madly at him. His mouth was moving quickly, spilling rapid words he couldn't hear. Slowly, his hearing returned and he could hear Gobber

                ( _Definitely Gobber.)_

shout at him with something like terror in his  voice, underneath the scream of the detonating bombs all around.

“Hiccup, boy!” He said, using one of his crutches to point wildly at the falling orange sky. “You've got to get to the buses! Ye can’t stay here!”

“What?” Hiccup said, barely able to hear his voice over all of this noise. He noticed his counselor’s crutches and said, “Where’s your fake leg?”

Gobber’s eyes showed none of the annoyance he would have gotten from anyone else. “I _forgot_ my damn prosthetic, so I can’t bend down and lend ye a hand, boy! I would, otherwise.” His fair hair was plastered to his red face, which was glistening under the sun from sweat coming from heat and stress. “Now, get up! They have the buses headed to, oh I don’t even know! C’mon!”

Hiccup, during this, had gotten up and had grabbed onto the nearby flagpole, which wasn't a well-thought idea at the time as it shook every time a bomb fell, causing his teeth to clash together and bite his tongue, it’s warm and metallic taste filling his mouth. He had understood Gobber’s message to get to the buses, which Hiccup knew were at the parking lot. But there were _two_ parking lots. Was it the one near the cafeteria or the one near the woods (which were for camping, but they never camped there in years, a counselor had said). He gave Gobber a nod to let him know he understood

                ( _not completely)_

 and began to run, as best he could on the quaking ground, towards the closest parking lot which was next to the woods. He looked back at Gobber briefly, seeing him try to console a crying boy, with an upper body that seemed too large for his twig legs to support,

                ( _Fishlegs?)_

 who was staring at the distance. He looked like he wanted to hug Gobber, but Gobber, rather, yanked his arm and motioned to the parking lot where Hiccup was headed.

Hiccup looked ahead at the buses filled with shocked, wide-eyed, crying, and screaming children.

                ( _Either one or all of the above)_

He remembered that it was 2 o’clock and most of the kids at the day camp still wearing nothing more than swim suits on their soaked bodies. Besides them, he saw the Thorston Twins carry kids to a bus. He recognized many faces in the crowd, even from a ways away. There were the twins, of course. There was Gustav, about to walk onto a bus. He saw Heather, Snot, and a few others he couldn't name because he was terrible at that. He saw a tall camo-clad girl with choppy blonde hair messily put together in a braid

                ( _ASTRID!)_

 passing out packed lunches to the kids outside the buses which were due to be given at 2:30, so it was earlier than scheduled. 

Hiccup called out her name, too exhausted for the moment to keep running, but it wasn't heard above the abundance of noise that belonged in one of twin’s beloved horror movie collections (otherwise known as the how-‘bout-we-get-Hiccup-to-stay-up-all-night? Collection). Not at a day camp. Not here. Not now.

Not ever.

Hiccup took a deep breath, as deep a breath he could with all of the fear in his chest and bitter smell around him, and ran as fast as an eight-but-just-like-in-a-month-he’d-be-nine-so-nine-for-now could.

                ( _Flash could do it)_

_(Flash is a fictional character; this is real life)_

_(Astrid could do it)_

_(You’re not Astrid)_

_(Shut up. I’m fast!)_

He dashed for a good half second before he was thrown violently to the ground, his breath leaving with a silent _oof_.

“Ow!” Hiccup grabbed his head, wincing at a pain his side. “Ow, ow, ow…” He felt a sticky liquid on his fingers, pressing them together a second before bringing them down. They were covered in blood.

                ( _Not good. This is not good at_ all)

His vision darkened at the edges as he tried to stand up before collapsing to the grassy ground.

                ( _Grassy?)_

Hiccup groaned as he realized the force of the blast threw him further than he thought; he was now closer to the woods than to the parking lot. He held onto the branch of a nearby tree and try as he might, he could not get his legs to stop shaking or his vision to stop spinning.

“The gods hate me,” he confirmed as he nearly fell trying to walk again. He knew he shouldn't be walking with the head injury he had, although, gods knew how bad it was. Blood coming out certainly wasn't a good sign he wasn't looking to aggravate it more. Wait. Who was he kidding? He was eight-but-almost-nine-so-like-nine and he knew nothing about what doctors did. Half of his mind was filled with an abundance of skills ranging from fixing broken trinkets and sketching contraptions he wished he could make but had no idea where to start. And, who knew how bad the bombs would get and what if the buses forgot him and he’s just lost here all alone, not that being alone was bad, but he didn't want to get ignored _again_ , ‘cause nothing was worse than that but he couldn't yell louder than bombs and he couldn't run as fast as Astrid and he didn't know how to stop the blood coming from his head and he couldn't stay up forever and why was the sky falling and why was the ground spinning and why couldn't everything just shut up so he could think and-

He dropped to the ground.

_(Third time)_

He couldn't hear his cry of pain and he could barely feel the rocks and grass poking his skin. He barely took notice of a face that appeared above his donning the wildest white hair he had ever seen on a person.


	2. Merida

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of Fergus time, but I wanted to get the whole point of the bow and the gun thing.  
> And, I can't write Scottish accents, so...

** Eight Years Ago **

“I don’t like it,” the girl said before sitting on the brown bean bag

                ( _Mostly deflated, the stupid thing)_

that she had pushed against the dusty, dirty wall four minutes before. She leaned back, resting her head full of untamed red curls against the wall. They had only been inside this abandoned house for ten minutes and she couldn’t take the silence.

Her mother turned her head in her direction, stopping momentarily talking with her husband in hushed tones to give her a look that said, “Don’t give me that, young lady, or so help me,” before she continued with whatever it was that was _so_ important.

                ( _Why don’t you answer me?)_

“Why did we have to _move_?” She drew vowel of the last word out in order to be a nuisance, as her mother called it. She wasn’t positive about what it meant exactly

                ( _An annoying girl, maybe)_

 but knew it wasn’t a good word as her mother looked mildly frustrated when she called her that.

Her mother turned around, running a hand through her long and thick brown hair

                ( _As long and thick and brown as the tree at our old house)_

before speaking.

“Merida,” she began. Merida sat up straight, or as straight as one could hope to sit on a mostly deflated bean bag. She waited in anticipation. Maybe she would get answers on why they had to uproot from their home a year ago after the bombs fell and travel all the way across the country in their van

                ( _With no freaking radio)_

which became victim to all sorts of natural disasters like flooding and hail and the constant gabber of her parents (especially her mum) about how it doesn’t reach 80 degrees in Michigan in the middle of November and other things that didn’t mean much to a then-nine-currently-ten year old girl who ached to do anything other than bore herself to sleep and try to imagine the games she would play outdoors while she tried to stimulate her sleeping legs in a car that smelled of sweaty feet no matter how many times she tried to convince herself otherwise.

She didn’t like traveling much. At all, actually. She and her parents had moved from Scotland to Lancaster, Pennsylvania when she was eight and they had only just settled in to an old timey cottage like the ones in the Fairy Tales her mum read to her with a tall, tall tree in the front yard. It was set near a beautiful forest and a place where Merida was able to continue riding horses just like she had at her Uncle Liam’s stable back in Braemar. But, come summer, the bombs fell and her dad made the decision to leave as soon as possible, beginning the dullest and hottest autumn she could remember.

So, Merida waited. Any explanation would satisfy her, even if it was just an explanation parents made in order to not worry a child who already knew something wasn’t quite right.

“Not now, my dear,” her mother finished, her weak smile not quite reaching her tired brown eyes. She reached inside her faded green jacket and handed her

                ( _A puzzle? My horse scrapbook? A slingshot?)_

 _(My_ bow?)

_(Bows can’t fit inside a jacket)_

_(I can hope)_

a book. It looked new and shiny with **_The Merry Adventures of ROBIN HOOD_** written on its cover in gold calligraphy.

                ( _A_ book?)

“A _book_?” Merida asked in disbelief, her mother having firmly taken her hands and put the book in-between them. “Uh…”

“I _know_ you don’t like books,” her mother said, kneeling down on the dusty wooden floor in front of her, her hands on Merida’s.

                ( _Almost as much as I like traveling)_

 “I know it isn’t something you would prefer doing,

                ( _At all, actually)_

 but we weren’t able to take many things with us when we left Lancaster

                ( _Reason being…?)_  
  
but I was able to find this, with a little help from your father, of course.” She smiled as he laughed loudly at that, his face turning as red as the hair on his head. “Books like these are so hard to find these days, my dear, so I need you to cherish it like it’s the last of its kind, as it just may be.”

“Mum,” Merida began, but was silenced by the sight of her mother’s watering eyes.

                ( _She never cries)_

“Promise me that, okay?” She took Merida’s hands and held them between her own, long and strong fingers holding tight to small ones.

“Okay,” Merida agreed, nodding her head.

Her mother nodded in return before standing up and brushing off the dirt that had accumulated on her khaki pants from the floor. She walked towards the back of the room where a rocking chair sat, before resting in it, holding her very pregnant belly with closed eyes.

“Well, if it’s gifts we’re talking,” her father said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “How about giving my favorite daughter the gift to defend herself.” He swung off his bag, unzipped it, and reached in.

Her mum’s eyes opened, staring directly at her husband.

“Fergus.”

                ( _What is it?)_

He glanced at her briefly, a wide smile on his face, as he continued to search through his bag.

“ _Fergus._ ”

“Elinor, honey,” her dad began.

“Fergus, don’t,” her mother sat up. “Don’t you start this.”

“What’s going on?” Merida asked, loudly. She did not want to get caught up in another event of her asking a question she would fail to get an answer to.

“Your father has a gun and I’m right

                ( _Like you always say you are)_

he aims to teach you how to use it,” she finished, folding her arms over her stomach. “I cannot believe this, Fergus. I don’t know where to _begin_ with how terrible of an idea this is.”

“A gun!” Merida exclaimed. She jumped off of her bag, collecting her book that had fallen onto the floor. “A gun, dad? Really!”

“Elinor,” her father said, rubbing his face with his hand, his other out of the bag, firmly grasping a handgun. “I’ll teach her. I’m…was…special forces. I can teach her. You know as much about this new world as I do and I don’t want her going through it unprepared.”

Elinor remained undeterred. “Guns are _not_ for children. Especially not a girl as small as she.”

Merida scoffed, crossing her arms defensively. “I am _not_ small.”

Elinor scoffed as well.

“Elinor, you act as if you think I’ll give it to her as a toy,” he said, his deep voice chuckling softly. “You know it isn’t as much as I, but you are right.” He turned to look at his daughter. “She is small.”

                (I am _not_ )

“But,” he continued. “Having a sharp eye and good aim will be able to make up for that. You remember how she was at her archery. This will only help.”

Her mother sighed and waved her hand, not wanting to be part of this nonsense, as she called it, any longer. She rocked gently in her chair.

Merida looked from her to her father. “So, can I?”

Her father’s eyes twinkled. “Tomorrow, Merri.” He ruffled her hair, tangling it more. “Tomorrow.”


	3. Rapunzel

** Seven Years Ago **

In the living room, a young girl sat on a bland white chair and looked out a just as bland window that showed nothing but utter blandness while humming a song-  “Jingle Bells”, (even though Christmas was four months away).

                ( _Not that we celebrate it anymore)_

She sighed and turned from the window. There, she saw her mother sewing clothing (a job she brought home because the workload was so much). Her shoulder-length brown hair was up in an impeccable bun so it wouldn’t affect her concentration.  Eyebrows drawn together, her sewing needle went in an out in a braided pattern in order to close up the hole the girl had made when she scraped her knees while wearing pants after school. She sat at the table, white as the walls which were as white as the ceiling. No blemishes. Perfect.

                ( _And boring)_

_(And dull)_

_(And so, so bland)_

“Mom,” the girl said. Her mother looked up and gave her smile.

“Yes, Rapunzel?” She replied, her quick sewing slowing down for the moment.

“Can we celebrate Christmas this year?” Rapunzel asked this in a quick manner, wanting to get it all out as soon as she could. The thought had been growing inside her for a while now and she wasn’t sure how she could stand it any longer if she wasn’t able to sing “Jingle Bells” at the top of her lungs rather than hum it where no one was allowed to listen.

Her mother’s eyes held a fearful light, her face becoming pale. She stopped her sewing and took a deep breath. “Rapunzel…”

“We should do it this year, even if it’s just us three.” She got up from her chair and ran to a corner in the roomthat had a large pile covering it before squatting in front of it. Rummaging through the pile, she continued talking. “I’ve been thinking,” she said as she pulled out three notebooks that had been covered with clothes and paperwork that didn’t fit inside the dressers in the other rooms. “Well, I’m always thinking, obviously. But, for a different reason this time. And, maybe it’s a stupid idea, but it _could_ be good.” She stood up and walked towards the table where her mother was seated. “And, I’ve  been drawing.” At her mother’s open mouth, she added. “No one saw them. I’m careful.”

She laid down her notebooks, three in total,

                ( _All bland white)_

and flicked through the one labeled **_Rapunzel’s Ideas: KEEP OUT_** and briefly explained a few pictures before turning to another. One page was filled with light blue swirls creating circular patterns that resembled snow.

“See, these are snowflakes. I don’t have a lot to work with since the crazy guy at the post office stopped selling colored pens, but I’ve been able to conserve it. And, it doesn’t snow here, but remember my first grade teacher Mrs. Pauline? Well, she told me that no two snowflakes are the same and it’s just a circle with cool patterns and white. But a cool white.”

                ( _Defiantly not bland)_

“And, you can cut these out with the scissors dad got, but didn’t tell me he had, and put them on the walls _not_ facing the windows. Or, in our rooms, if that’s okay. And,” she turned a few pages, pages with more drawings than blank spaces, and stopped at one with snowmen. “Then, we can add these. I don’t want to cut them out, but we can use the old paper-ish tablecloth that I saved when you tried to throw it away. We can put it on, hmm.” She gazed around the room and pointed at the hallway. “There. And, we can draw Frosty the Snowman on it.”

“Rapunzel…” Her mother began.

“Questions later,” Rapunzel insisted, glancing at her mother through her long golden hair. “We’re almost there.” She closed her first notebook and picked another labeled **_MATH_** and opened to the first page that said **_Christmas Carols_** , listing several names of Christmas songs and pages to their corresponding lyrics within the book.

“Mom,” she started. “You, me, and dad can sing these in my room. My room doesn’t have windows, so it’s safe. There’s “Jingle Bells”, “Let it Snow”

                ( _It doesn’t snow here, but I can continue wishing)_

“Frosty the Snowman”, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”

                ( _‘Cause it used to be)_

and, other stuff, and it’s be just like how it used to be.”

                ( _Before the sky fell)_

“Oh, ‘Punzie.” Her mother rubbed her eyes. “It’s a wonderful idea. It really is.”

                ( _Don’t say but!)_

“ _But_ ,” she continued, frowning slightly at Rapunzel’s sigh. “We can’t. You know what the rules are.”

                ( _They’re stupid rules)_

“Your dad and I would love to celebrate Christmas, just like we used to, along with Halloween and Thanksgiving and New Years and all the others. But we can’t. Because it’s-”

“It’s against the rules,” Rapunzel finished. “But _why_? What’s wrong with holidays?”

Her mother picked up her sewing needle, determined to start up her sewing again. “Rapunzel, you’re not old enough to understand.”

Rapunzel’s green eyes widened and she felt anger within her, a feeling that was usually suppressed with the drugs the city required you to take (except she refused to take them). “Then, when _will_ I be old enough,” she said, her hand hitting the table. “Once I’d have to go through years without celebrating anything besides my birthday, even though _that_ isn’t how it used to be? I’m almost _eleven_. And after the bombs, daddy signed up for a job or something and we had to move here. And, I hate it here!” She shouted the last bit, much to the fright of her mother. Her mother’s eyes widened and her face went paler than before. After a few seconds of silence, she spoke quietly. “You shouldn’t shout, Rapunzel.”

Rapunzel nodded, having gone pale as well. Her previous anger was replaced by a gripping panic as she understood the possible consequence of anyone hearing that. She knew some people disappeared.

                ( _The boy- Allen- who used to sit in front of me in English)_

_(Our neighbors with the funny movies on their computer)_

_(The lady with blue hair that used to scream at the Dracs)_

_(The crazy guy with the tattoos that gave me pens)_

“But, you can keep a secret, can’t you?” Her mother’s hand was on Rapunzel’s right shoulder, squeezing it gently. Her face, no longer pale, wore a grin that reached her eyes, as green as her daughter’s.

Rapunzel nodded, enthusiastically.

                ( _I can! I really, really can!)_

“Alright,” she leaned in close and whispered. “Next year, we’ll celebrate Christmas because we’re leaving the city.” Rapunzel gasped. “And, it’ll be after Christmas, unfortunately. But, it’ll be us and a few other families. Not all together, but little by little so we won’t be noticed.”

Rapunzel’s smile was so large, she wasn’t sure how her face could support it. She began jumping up and down in a joyful manner. “Oh gosh! Oh my gosh!” She hugged her mother. “We’re going to leave. This is,” Rapunzel’s began to sting from the tears forming. “This is more than I could’ve asked for, mom.”

                ( _I’ll be able to sing!)_

_(And dance!)_

_(And draw!)_

_(And paint!)_

_(Oh my gosh!)_

They hugged for what seemed like forever before her mother asked about her day at school and Rapunzel started telling her partner in math they had been assigned for a project hardly did anything helpful and still sucked his thumb at _eleven-years-old-mom_. Her mother began chatting about her friend at her job, a Martha, and how funny she was and how it had been her birthday that day and she couldn’t believe how she forgot a present. Then, a knock came at the door.

Rapunzel stared at the door. “Who is it?” she asked her mother, softly.

“I’m not sure.” She stood up. “Your father doesn’t come home for another two hours.”

                ( _But schedules don’t get changed)_

_(And we don’t get visitors)_

After three more raps at the door, her mother walked towards the door, muttering about how she wished they made doors with peepholes nowadays, and opened it a crack.

“Who is it?” She asked, masking the fear in her voice as best she could.

“Better Living Exterminator Gothel,” a cold voice came. “Open up the door, rebel.”

                ( _Oh no, oh no, oh no)_

Her mother’s voice hitched at that. Her trembling hand gripped the doorknob as hard as she could and opened it slowly. However, the Exterminator pushed in, causing her mother to slam against the wall behind her.

“Mommy!” Rapunzel cried.

The Exterminator in her crisp white uniform (in stark contrast to her curly black hair) was in full view, four armed Draculoids following behind her. So was the man she was holding with a gun to his head.

Rapunzel’s dad.

“Daddy!” Rapunzel began to step forward, but didn’t as her eyes had locked with the Exterminator’s cold ones whose gun holding hand tightened.

“Stefan and Elise Abner,” the Exterminator said, her head held high, a cold smile gracing her lips. “You have been accused of traitorous acts against the city from five different sources. As you know, the City is no place for rebels. No tolerance.”

“I already told you,” Rapunzel’s father said, red faced and breathless, his work uniform spotted with the blood dripping from his mouth. “We know _nothing._ ”

The Exterminator tsked at his comment, glancing at Rapunzel and noticing the tears on her cheeks. “The two of you are so _selfish_. You were willing to risk the life of your daughter over a ridiculous dream?” She pushed her father away, two Dracs taking over, guns at the ready. She walked towards Rapunzel, who began to back away slowly.

                ( _I don’t want to disappear!)_

“Don’t hurt her!” her mother cried, the other two Draculoids holding her still.

The Exterminator scoffed at the plea. “Child, I have been told your name is Rapunzel. Is that correct?”

“Y-Yes,” Rapunzel said, more frightened than she had ever felt before.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel.” The Exterminator made a disgusted face. “Such a distasteful name. What, did your parents decide they should name you after a vegetable once you popped out?”

Rapunzel didn’t know what to say.

“Mrs. Abner, I do not aim to hurt your daughter. Nor your husband. Not yourself. However, I know you hold valuable information about rebel activities, as you were both so into human rights before the bombs. You have gotten extremely involved, so of course you were planning something with the infamous Dr. Death Defying.” Rapunzel noticed her dad’s red face begin to pale at the name, bringing a smile to the Exterminator’s face. “But I will have the girl’s mind wiped and used as leverage, so if you do not answer every question the City ay ever have with impeccable accuracy, I will have no choice to deal out punishments, not to you, but to her.”

Rapunzel’s mother’s sobs filled the silence of the room.

“Besides,” the Exterminator finished, smiling at Rapunzel. “I’ve always wanted a daughter.”


	4. Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Hiccup might be out of character (which is a shame since I've seen the movies and TV shows an embarrassing number of times).  
> Wanted to incorporate more of Jack's story into this but I'll allow for that in later chapters.

**Six Years Ago**

A boy with hair as white as snow peeked over the shoulder of a younger boy (in appearance, at least) sitting on an extremely old looking park bench (in appearance, at least) who was scribbling something furiously

             (It’s amazing how much one can write in less than a minute)

in a notebook, old by the looks of it, with pages curling at the ends.

The boy stood up straight and stretched his arms behind his back, an audible ripping sound going down the left side of his two-sizes-too-small blue jacket. He wasn’t known for sitting still for too long of a period and sighed annoyingly, at least that was the impression he got from the face of the other boy who looked up momentarily from is writing to give him a look of irritation.

“So, Hiccup” the snow-haired boy began, “any idea when you’re gonna be done with, uh,” he waved his right hand in an indecipherable gesture, “that?”

             (‘Cause I know it’s important but finding food is way more important)

Hiccup tapped his pencil against his chin deep in thought before nodding,

             (That’s gotta mean yes)

placing the pencil in the book to hold his place before looking to face the other boy. “Jack,” he began,

             (Goddamn, why does it look like you still have a stick up your butt?)

“In case you haven’t realized, there is nothing but miles of wasteland

             (And a road, ya know?) 

all around us,” he said, spreading his arms out for emphasis. “And, the closest town which, by the way, is ten miles away is rumored to be heavily under the influence of BLI, so unless you want to be killed the second we walk in, we need to have a plan.” He flushed deeply, and Jack couldn’t tell if it was because of the fact that he spoke a lot more than he intended to,

             (Mr. I-Never-Share-My-Plans-Since-I’m-Paranoid)

or if it was the heat. Which was getting to him. Damn his Icelandic genes. Probably just the heat.

“Okay,” he said, tugging at his jacket’s neckline.

             (It’s definitely over 100, damn it)

“Say you are right about whatever it is that you’re writing here, ‘bout how to get it and get shit, and get out with all our grey matter still intact. Say that. But I just don’t get what’s with your obsession of getting into the city in the first place.” He decided to join Hiccup on the bench. “We’ve got our truck, miles of Drac-less territory, and enough food if he can find it. People, die

             (By the hundreds, and that’s only what we here on the radio)

trying to get out of the Cities, Hiccup. Why do you want to go back in?”

However, Jack knew perfectly well why Hiccup would put so much detail and planning into going back into the City, any City, and has been or the past four years that he’s known him. After the bombs fell and Jack (who had been camping with his family on vacation from Maine and of course he just had to have woken up early to watch the sunrise of the highest place in the woods, so by the time everything had happened and the noisy with laughter Berkeley Day Camp had become noisy with screams, his family was gone, bodies and all. Of course, to keep his sanity he reasoned with himself that if there no bodies, there was a chance they were alive somewhere and were taken someplace safe, even if that someplace was a BLI City and they were being drugged up, but were safe.) found him knocked out in the woods shortly after, they decided they were the only ones who could trust each other ever. They found clothes, food, toilet paper, housing in bookstores that had hidden their literary treasures underneath the floor which held hours of entertainment. But it was always in late night conversations, whether it was lying on a tile floor, a cement floor, or the dry dirt outside a long abandoned brick building.

             (But never, not ever, a bed)

“D’you think they’re alive?” Hiccup would ask, staring up at the ceiling or the grandeur of the Milky Way. Whatever was available that night.  
Jack never asked who “they” were. He always knew from whenever his companion would mention out of the blue how his father might have liked the view from a mountaintop overlooking thousand of autumn touched trees,

             (It was his favorite season, he would say)

or the collection of horror books, ranging from Stephen King to R.L. Stine, that they obtained from a deserted library, that he swore the Thorston Twins would drool over,

             (They had an unhealthy fascination with the genre, he would say)

or the Museum of Historic Battles, which held fascinating bow and arrow, after “supposedly” famous swords, to decorated axes where he laughed out loud and proclaimed with conviction that Astrid would have bought this place.

             (She loved weapons, he would say)

             (Which was scary, but cool in a way)

             (Jack had personally found some old staff that was taller than him that he decided he ought to keep it, weaponize it, or something. Good thing too, since they left two days before they heard the news that it had been demolished. Hiccup cried. Jack practiced with his new staff).  
“What about your family, Jack?” He would ask, half asleep. Jack would never answer, because he still couldn’t decide if having mindless drones as family was any better than being themselves before they died. If they died.

“You know what, whatever,” Jack muttered, his stomach growling a little louder than comfort. “You just stay near the truck. This place can’t be ten miles away from everything.” He made his way toward a brown book bag where he pulled out a pair of rollerblades,

             (Best invention since sliced bread, hands down)

slipped them on, and saluted Hiccup whose eyes rolled skywards. He reached in his own bag and pulled out a gun.

“You don’t go anywhere without your gun, Frost,” he murmured to himself. He spun around and started racing down the road, turning backwards to call out, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Hiccup!”

With only a wave to signify that he received the message, Jack turned his eyes back to the dusty road, breathing in the dusty air underneath the dusty, radioactive sky.

He laughed out loud.

             (There is no reason to not believe in global warming right now)

He skated for about ten minutes. He skated backwards every once in a while to make sure Hiccup wasn’t going to fall victim to some sneak Drac attack.

             (That’s not really their style, though. They’re more for making themselves known so you can die while shitting your pants)  
Suddenly, he heard a shout. Then, a flash of green. He quickly skidded to a stop and looked around.

The thing about the desert that was now most of the, what used to be known as, Western Continental United States is that it’s quiet. There’s enough sounds of life (like the rustling of feathers, the howling of wolves- he thinks, the buzzing of insects, etc.) to remind him that this wasn’t some kind of dead world, that this wasn’t some sort of virus-stricken world that had killed everyone off, plants and animals included, except he and Hiccup.

             (There’d be no way to repopulate. AAAAAH, THAT’S DISGUSTING!!!)

There were never shouts in the desert unless people were there.

Or Dracs.

This went through Jack’s mind in about a second, in which he grabbed his staff with one hand and his gun with another. (Hiccup always thought it looked sort of over exaggerated, but Jack was ambidextrous and copious amounts of time to himself allowed for copious amounts of time to practice).  
He was not prepared for the sight in front of him.

Four people, all dressed in an array of colors, stood before him, all handling unconventional weapons.

             (One had a boomerang for Christ’s sake)

“‘E’s got a staff,” the boomerang wielding one said. He was tall and wearing a grey jacket and a hat that had ears.

             (Like that guy from that cartoon way back when)

He pointed an accusatory finger at him.

“And you have an assload of tattoos, kangaroo,” Jack retorted, not stopping and thinking about what came out of his mouth like Hiccup said he should.  
The kangaroo boomerang man stepped forward with a pissed off look on his face. A shorter lady, her hair dyed every sort of color under the rainbow, placed her hand on his shoulder in a restraining sort of way. “You wanna say that again?”

Jack figured the dude wanted him to reconsider what he had just said, but looking at him again, he grinned (because the man’s black tribal tattoos did amount to an assload). He repeated what he said before.

The kangaroo man looked even more pissed off and Jack decided not to bite back his laughter because, who in this day and age, would get upset over their own tattoos?

             (Unless he’s upset about the “kangaroo” part)

After a short consoling by his “groupmates?”, he stormed off, cursing at the sun. Jack looked on, amused.

“Sorry about that,” the colorful lady said smiling. The color didn’t start and stop at her hair, but extended to her tie-dyed shirt, skirt (which had patches of all sort that would have been overwhelming had it not been on her), and tie-dyed leggings. Her hands were wrapped around the straps of her backpack tightly so all her gesturing was made with her face, which held colorful facial expressions. “He can get a little riled up over things.”  
“Ah, ‘sall right,” Jack replied, having already shoved his gun in the pocket of his own backpack and held his staff in an non-defensive position. His fingers itched to flip it around.

             (And, OMIGOD, other people!!)

“I’m Jack!” he offered.

“Well, Jack,” the large white-haired man behind the colorful lady boomed.

             (Is he Russian?)

             (He can’t be Russian. There aren’t any planes anymore)

             (Unless he was here before….)

“It’s not wise to toss name around willy-nilly,” he continued, crossing his also tatted up arms. “Especially not with people you don’t know.” He wore a bright red jacket and Jack believed that was a worse offense than tossing your name around. Red stands out in the desert like orange on black.  
“Fine. Then you tell me your names,” he countered, all eleven-year-old logic intact.

The last of the four chuckled silently. He was shorter, like midget short, and he wore shiny clothing as yellow as his hair.

             (If the end of the world hasn’t done anything, it definitely allows you the freedom to express yourself)

“Well,” the colorful lady laughed. “None of us go by our real names-”

“The sheila here is Toothiana,” the kangaroo man said, hat in hand, walking back where he had his manly temper tantrum.

             (Really losing your rep taking your ear hat off, dude)

“Dat’s North,” he pointed to the burly man, “and that’s Sandy,” he finished, gesturing to the short yellow man.

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Do you go by ‘Kangaroo’?”

The tall man gripped his boomerang tightly, knuckles turning white. “It’s Bunnymund, kid, and best you remember it.”

             (That’s kinda worse than Kangaroo...)

             (Bunnymund??)

“Do you guys have a group name?” he asked.

             (Like the Killjoys)

But, before they could respond, a shout came from behind him along with the pattering of feet. Jack ducked before a laser shot the air above his head, singeing the very tips of his wild white hair.

“JACK!!” came Hiccup’s voice. Jack winced.

             (Oops…)

He raised up his hands (the other holding his staff). “I’M ALRIGHT!!!” he called, hoping it would slow Hiccup’s pace like his overly heavy backpack couldn’t.

             (What am I saying. He holds onto things with a locked jaw)

Hiccup, red faced and all, soon came into sight with a “Stay away from him!”.

Jack ran up to him and held him by the shoulders. He saw that Hiccup was terrified, and probably really, very angry. “I’m okay. They’re okay. We’re fine.”

“Jack,” Hiccup breathed, his green eyes looking like they belonged to someone else, someone who wasn’t the calm and collected boy Jack had thought of as a brother for the past three years. “You don’t just decide to trust someone just because they look cool! They could be hired by BLI!”

Jack scoffed, a habit he had adopted after previous encounters of his partner’s paranoia. “I’m pretty sure BLI doesn’t hire people with tattoos. Too much individuality and all that.”

“He has point,” North said, nodding.

“Uh huh,” Jack nodded likewise.

“I meant shorter one,” North responded.

Hiccup smirked despite himself.

Jack looked at Bunnymund. “Do you work for BLI?”

Bunnymund’s frowned deepened as if offended.

             (Probably was. That was kinda rude)

“Do you have possess a normal hair color for a kid?” he answered instead.

“Exactly,” Jack said happily. “They’re safe. Plus-” he caught Sandy chewing on something.

             (Is that jerky?)

“They have food,” he finished.

“Jack,” Hiccup began, using his that’s-not-a-strong-argument-dude voice.

“C’mon,” Jack said, shaking his shoulders. “If we can join up with them, it’d be totally safer than having just two of us.”

Hiccup responded with a you’ve-got-a-point-there-face.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bunnymund voiced angrily. “Who said anything about them joining us?”

“I think it would be an amazing experience!” Toothiana said, clapping her hands together. “I haven’t seen any constant contact with kids for three years.”

“Kids,” Hiccup snorted. “You don’t look that much older than us. You’re like, what, 16?”

             (Oh)

Toothiana shrugged. “Not a teen in this world. Maybe it was wrong to call you guys kids.”

North held out his hand to Hiccup. “Name’s North.”

“Hiccup,” said Hiccup. He shook North’s hand firmly.

“Hiccup?” Bunnymund asked laughingly. “Now that’s a name.”

“Now,” North said, whacking Bunnymund behind his head. “If it’s food you want, best to get moving.”

Jack pointed from where he had skated from. “We have a truck.”

“To get there, no need for trucks,” he replied, chuckling deeply. His group quickly held hands. Sandy, closest to Jack, gestured for him to take his hand as well.

“To answer question, Jack,” North said, looking at Jack with a twinkle in his eyes, “We are Guardians.”

There was a blinding light and then there was dust.


End file.
